


Just Another Night Out on the Town

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's leaning on the counter in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror and repeating positive affirmations like some kind of small, dark, slightly less effeminate Stuart Smalley when the bomb goes off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Night Out on the Town

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt "avulsion" (a type of amputation where the extremity is pulled off rather than cut off.) You'd think that prompt would lend itself to _The Walking Dead_ , wouldn't you? But nope, my mind went immediately to Die Hard. Vaguely post- _A Good Day to Die Hard_ , in that Jack and Russians are mentioned.
> 
> * * *

"Excuse me," Matt says.

"Jesus, again?" John mutters as he gets up from the bench seat. "Ya got a bladder the size of a pea, Matty."

"Thanks, John. A little louder, I don't think the woman over by the lobster tank heard you," Matt replies. He grimaces apologetically at Jack, hoping for a little _can you believe this guy can't take him anywhere_ bonding. What he gets is a steely glare and stony silence. The same thing he's been getting all fucking night, occasionally punctuated by grunts and scowls. Which is exactly why he keeps escaping to the damn bathroom in the first place. 

_Don't worry_ , John had said. _Jack's a good kid, you'll get along fine._

_I'll be there to prop you up_ , Lucy had said. _Stop panicking, Farrell._

Good kid, his ass. And he's going to kill Lucy for bailing.

He's leaning on the counter in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror and repeating positive affirmations like some kind of small, dark, slightly less effeminate Stuart Smalley when the bomb goes off.

Matt freezes for at least ten seconds, blinking at the spill of dust from the shaken ceiling that's now liberally coating his hair. Later, he'll realize that his shock and hesitation is probably what saves his life. Well, that and the broken elevator.

By the time he makes it to the bathroom door, he is already hearing the rattle of gunfire from the dining room, ragged screams and the crash of overturned tables and broken china. It's only after he's flung the door wide that he realizes he should have eased it open, taken a quick peek outside to make sure the coast was clear. But his mind isn't working the way it should, all his logical thinking and usually impressive vocabulary replaced with _holy fuck_ and _what the hell_ and _John where is JOHN_. He's already taken two steps into the hallway when the really, absolutely massive dude with the really, even more ridiculously massive machine gun swivels toward him. 

How he even hears the _ding_ of the elevator arriving in the hallway is beyond him. 

The elevator doors seem to open in aching slow motion, slick silver plates sliding ponderously apart. The absolutely massive dude moves at about the same speed, swinging his weapon around, finger flipping forward to the trigger. Beyond him, Matt can see some of the chaos in the restaurant – shattered glass from both the aquarium and the thick windows that look out into the hallway, a spill of red on the dark carpet that he hopes is someone's designer dress and not blood, and John McClane – gotta always be in the thick of things, jesus why on earth did he fall in love with a goddamn supercop – popping out of his hiding place to wave someone else to safety. 

No way he's making it to John's side. No way.

Matt dives for the elevator.

He catapults through just as the doors are starting to close, crashes into a very startled looking society matron and lands on his bad knee. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. After what seems like an eternity, during which the society matron stares blankly at him and clutches her beaded purse to her bosom, Matt finally manages to stumble to his feet to jab at the buttons, and hits three different floors before finally punching the lobby. He staggers back against the rear wall and watches, wills, beseeches the doors to finally fucking _close_ already.

He almost makes it.

There's only about three inches of space left between the sliding door and the wall, but the terrorist – or thief, he's probably a thief, John says it's _always_ about the money – shoves his arm into the space. When recounting the story later, Matt will deny that he let out any squeal or yelp or squeak of any kind, no matter what the damn society matron says. He _does_ make a leap for the weapon, because he knows the elevator sensor is going to detect the presence of a body and re-open the stupid fucking doors. 

The absolutely massive terrorist/thief has arms that are literally the size of tree trunks – okay, definitely large saplings – with fingers that look just like the sausages that he's always telling John he can't eat if he wants to lower his cholesterol like the doctor keeps bugging him to do. The society matron most definitely squeals when the terrorist's finger tightens on the trigger and a burst of gunfire rattles through the small elevator, deafening them and spraying them with chunks of pseudo-wood and plaster and Matt knows he has like literally two seconds to wrestle the damn weapon out of the guy's hand before the elevator sensor finally activates and—

That's when the screaming starts. 

Because the doors don't open. 

Matt never would have thought that an arm getting ripped from somebody's body at the elbow would make such a curiously squishy sound underneath the cracking of the broken bones.

The fingers spasm and the AK-47 drops to the hardwood just as the doors fully close and the elevator finally begins its descent to the ground floor. Matt only realizes he's still holding the severed limb when he turns away to slump against the wall and sees the society matron's eyes roll up just before she passes out.

Matt shivers, throws the severed limb against the far wall. But he keeps an eye on it. You just never know with terrorists.

* * *

He sees John and Jack stagger out of the building about an hour later, after he's met up with Connie and tapped into the terrorist's cell phone network. At first that didn't seem all that helpful, but it turns out that Connie speaks Russian, so.

He would have paid good money to see the looks on the bad guys faces when Connie and her team showed up in the bank next door.

"Fun night out with the kid, eh?" John says in greeting.

Matt stumbles into him, swipes a hand over his heart. Still thumping along. Not even beating fast. Typical.

"This place is definitely not getting a good review on my blog," Matt says.

"You have a blog?"

"For years," Matt says. "And hey, John? You know how you wanted me to meet Holly next week? Really unfortunate timing. I think I'm gonna be out of town."

John snuffs out a laugh that turns into a wince, wipes a grimy hand around his neck. "Me too, kid."

"Hospital?" Matt asks.

"Oh yeah," John says. He waves a hand at Jack, nods toward the waiting paramedic and eases himself into the back of the ambulance. 

Matt hops up beside him, watches as the medic pulls out his kit. Eyes the spot on John's head where he's going to have yet another new scar, and most certainly does not imagine how he will lick at it when it's healed, feel the puckering of it beneath his tongue and feel John tense and moan and writhe beneath him.

"Hey, kid," John says.

Matt blinks, meets John's eyes.

"What's a blog?"


End file.
